Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The engine of the Camaro lulled Summer as Joe drove. It felt good not to move, but the problem with drifting off into la-la land was that it all came back to her in vivid detail.
Waking up in the beanbag chair.
Surrounded by smoke.
Facing her nightmare.
She’d been saved by the grace of her phone. As long as she lived, she’d never forget the long breathless wait for the sirens, which in reality had probably been only a few minutes, but had seemed like an eternity.
Trapped.
And all she’d been able to think about as the smoke filled the room around her, as she’d finally been forced to lie flat on the floor for any air at all, was that she couldn’t die, not like this, not like her father.
She hadn’t lived enough, damn it. Granted, she’d lived hard and good and well, but not enough.
She started in surprise when Joe scooped her up. She hadn’t even realized he’d turned off the engine, or heard him come around and open the passenger door, but now here she was, in his arms, being carried toward her front door.
He felt warm and comfortably solid, and so achingly familiar she wanted to hold on tight and never let him go.
“Keys?”
She frowned and tried to think, but it was beyond her.
“Never mind.” Still holding her as if she weighed nothing, he strode around the back of the small cottage and shouldered open the unlocked back door.
“How did you know?”
“You never used to lock your doors.”
“Down the hall.”
He passed through the bright sunshine yellow kitchen, down the hall, and straight into the bathroom.
Setting her on the counter, he flicked on the light, making her blink in the harsh brightness.
The small, pale blue room was well lived in.
The lace shower curtains were flung over the top of the rod because she’d taken a bath that morning.
Her towels were still on the floor, as were her favorite peach bra and matching panties.
She had her things scattered over the counter: her favorite body lotion, a fistful of scrunchies in every color under the sun, her big round brush, her strawberry cream lip gloss, and an assortment of other necessities.
“First-aid kit,” he said, looking baffled by it all. His eyes darted around, landing on her peach panties.
“There are Band-Aids in the drawer.”
He went hunting through the messy drawer, past a box of tampons and hair dryer without a word, but the box of condoms stopped him.
“Three,” she said to his unasked questions.
He lifted his gaze to hers.
“Three are gone,” she clarified. “You wanted to know, right?”
“Not really,” he muttered and shoved the box to the back with more force than was necessary.
She put her hand on his wrist and waited until his eyes swiveled back to hers.
She was aching from the cuts on her legs now, her throat felt as if she’d swallowed glass, and her head…
she was certain some little guy with a jackhammer had made himself at home between her eyes.
She’d lived through a nightmare tonight and yet suddenly she felt like smiling at the brooding look in Joe’s eyes.
“None of the stuff in that drawer is mine,” she told him. “It all belongs to the person who rents this place full time, who is Chloe’s college roommate. I told you about her, remember? She went home to Maine for the summer.”
To his credit, he laughed a little at himself, then it seemed to back up in his throat when she pulled one foil packet from the box and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans, her fingers brushing his gun as she did so.
“Just in case,” she murmured.
He went still for a breath, then busied himself finding antiseptic to go with the Band-Aids. He straightened with both in his hands and no longer looked remotely relaxed.
Not that he’d been relaxed to begin with, but his jaw was all bunched and the muscle in it was leaping. His eyes were like smooth glass but filled with things he’d kept to himself.
He unraveled her from the blanket and nodded to her skirt, which was stuck to her in places, with little spots of blood soaking through. “Lift it.”
Instead, she held it down, feeling oddly self-conscious. “The paramedics already looked at the cuts.”
“But you didn’t let them put anything on them.”
“And what makes you think I’m going to let you?”
He simply bunched the material of her skirt in his hands and firmly but gently shoved it up.
“Hey—”
Leaning in, he put his hands on her thighs, holding her skirt up, his face right in hers, eyes flashing, mouth grim. “I watched you get dragged out of that inferno tonight, watched you relive an old nightmare. A nightmare, by the way, you never let me help you through the first time.”
“Joe—”
“Back then, I had to stand by helplessly as you stayed unconscious for too long, too damn long, bleeding—” His eyes filled with agony as he broke off.
He drew a slow, purposeful breath. “Then you went away, and stayed away. Tonight, I once again stood by as you were trapped in a fire, watched as you went into shock. Now finally, there’s something I can do for you, so damn it, let me. ”
She stared at him. The silence stretched taut. His face was composed but the vibrations of emotion radiated in waves from his body as he stood there, her skirt in his hand, eyes locked on hers.
“I didn’t stay away to hurt you,” she finally said.
The rushing frustration seemed to drain from him, and he gently set his forehead to hers. “I know.”
She curled into him. “I’m not going to run away, not ever again.”
“Shh.” With a gentleness that reminded her of the boy he’d once been, he treated each of her cuts, slowly, carefully, and when she bit her lower lip at the sting of the antiseptic, he made a hoarse, apologetic sound and bent closer, one hand holding up her skirt, the other cradling a thigh in his palm, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her injuries.
“Better?” he murmured. His jaw brushed her knee. He hadn’t shaved, and the growth brought out a set of goose bumps along her flesh, which he stroked with his hand in a heart-melting gesture.
“Much better. God, I was so scared.”
He lifted his head and searched her gaze. He didn’t say anything, didn’t offer empty, meaningless words, just slowly nodded.
And because of it, because it was him, she could admit the rest. “I thought I was toast.”
He let out a low, rough sound and gathered her close.
“It made me so mad,” she whispered, fisting her hands in his shirt. “I was going to die sitting there doing nothing more complicated than feeling sorry for myself.”
“Why were you feeling sorry for yourself?”
“Because I was alone, damn it. I hate being alone.”
“You’re not alone now.”
She lifted her head and stared into his eyes, not sure if she’d heard him right. “I smell like smoke.”
“I noticed.”
But he didn’t object when she lifted her hands and sank them into his shaggy hair. “You need a haircut.”
His hands went to her hips. “And you like talking more than me.”
“What else is there to do?”
His eyes darkened. He nudged closer, wedging his body between her thighs.
Oh. Oh my. She tightened her fingers in his hair. “No more talking then.”
“Yeah. We’ll see how long that lasts.”
He was right. She’d never been able to keep her mouth shut. She was going to try to do so now. In a minute. “The other night…you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to even talk to me.”
“You hadn’t just almost died.”
“So this is what, just adrenaline?”
He sighed. “What happened to the no more talking thing?”
“Right.” She pressed her face to the crook of his shoulder. “Then make me feel alive, Joe. Hurry.”
A gravelly sound of understanding tore from his throat. His arms came around her, and she braced for the delicious, quick, hot, fast assault like the week before.
But he went for another tactic this time, sliding his fingers in her hair, tugging her face up, leaning in slowly, nibbling first one side of her mouth, then the other, until her lips trembled open and a moan escaped.
Nudging her back to the mirror, he pressed her between that cool surface and his warm, hard body and kissed her.
When his tongue touched hers, she nearly cried in relief but he kept at the unbearably leisurely pace until she wanted to scream.
She wanted hot. She wanted hard and fast, and her fingers bit into his biceps as she moaned, opening her legs further, doing everything she could to urge him on, and still he didn’t rush.
She could feel him hard against her stomach, through his jeans, and she pressed closer still, melting under the palm he stroked languidly up and down her back.
She shivered and tried to deepen the connection, but he held back. Impatient, she bit his lower lip. He inhaled sharply as his arms tightened on her.
“I’m trying to warm you up here,” he said.
“I’m warm. I’m hot. I’m burning up.”
“I knew you couldn’t do it.”
“Do what? I’ll do anything—”
“Except hush—” He caught her laughing protest with his mouth, swallowed it whole, and captured her tongue, whipping it into submission with long, wet, hot strokes that had her whimpering, aching, dying…
All while his hands kept up that maddening slow perusal of her body, up and down her back, her sides, her ribs, and finally, finally, palming her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her aching nipples until she wrenched free to gasp in air.
“You feel alive now?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Head back, she closed her eyes to let the mindlessness of it close over her, but then he did the worst thing possible.
He stopped.
She cracked an eye open to find him watching her, eyes hot, body tense. “What?”
“Don’t escape. Stay with me.”
“I’m right here,” she said with a little laugh.
“Then keep looking at me.” He nudged her with his erection. “Say my name.”
She laughed again.
He did not.
Her smile faded. “You mean…now?”
“You said you want to connect, then connect with me.” He made another pass at her nipple with his thumb, and her eyes drifted shut on a sigh.
And just like that, his hand was gone.